


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by RickWoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickWoman/pseuds/RickWoman
Summary: Hermione and Severus must overcome a past that threatens to overwhelm them both.TW: History of pregnancy Loss
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 35
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> I needed a break from Last Hope and decided to write this quick story. It'll only be a few chapters long and, despite the first chapter, will transition to fluff shortly. I hope you like it. Updates will occur weekly as the story is almost completed. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW: history of pregnancy loss

Drumming an agitated rhythm on the edge of her table, Hermione sighed and cast a _Tempus_ charm, growling at the tediously slow crawl of the evening. By manner of a well-hidden clause, she had been made contractually obliged to attend these ruddy Ministry functions and was forced to act as a representative for her department whilst dressing like a tart. Embarrassingly, she’d also been strong-armed into giving quarterly speeches, droning on about the ongoing efficiency of the Department of Mysteries, as well as the generosity the Ministry had shown in awarding her team with the _Müller-Avery_ grant.

“Drink, Miss?”

Nodding absently, Hermione snagged a glass of champagne from the waiter’s tray and polished it off in record time, deciding that she had spent more than enough time kissing arse for one evening. She climbed to her feet, determined to grab one of the complimentary gift baggies on her way out, and immediately slammed into something solid.

“Oh, pardon me,” she mumbled, feeling a blush rise from beneath the neck of her dress as the person steadied her. Glancing up, she took in the swathes of black robes and immediately felt her stomach plummet to her knees.

“Miss Granger.”

_Damn._

The little flicker of hope that her former potions professor had ceased hating her after their last _entanglement_ was immediately snuffed out by his stony expression and the way he stared over the top of her head, clearly seeking an exit.

“Sev–Professor Snape, I hadn’t expected to see you.”

The quirk of his eyebrow, though mocking, did funny things to her insides that resultingly intensified the blush now staining her cheeks. Despite the years that had passed since the two had last encountered one another, Hermione felt somewhat indignant that she still harboured a hint of a crush, as though her evolution into a strong, independent woman had meant almost nothing.

“Right, you’re on the committee for the Ministry’s apprenticeship program,” she amended quietly, casting her gaze to the row of ornate ebony buttons adorning his front. “Well, it was good to see you, sir. I was just leaving.”

She gave him a small nod in farewell and stepped around him, wishing she had had the choice to stay in and watch the telly, stuffing her sad gob with the tub of ice cream she had stashed in the back of her freezer. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Professor Snape’s hand encircle her forearm and stall her departure with a gentle pull. Looking up at the man with a curious expression, she allowed herself to be guided back into his vicinity and watched with rapt fascination as he pulled a small business card from his pocket.

“There is a matter that I wish to discuss with you, Miss Granger,” he explained, holding the embossed card out to her. “When you have a moment, send a letter by way of owl to that address, and let me know when you are free to meet.”

Then, without a word, the man turned on his heel and disappeared into the swaying crowd of dancing couples, never once looking back. Perplexed, Hermione turned the card about, studying the curved, green lettering, and stowed it gently in her clutch, having half a mind to laminate the bloody thing. It didn’t help that the ache she’d so viciously shoved into the very recesses of her mind came flying back into the fore, all but knocking the breath from her lungs.

Shakily, Hermione straightened herself and departed the hall, making for one of the fireplaces lining the walls of the Ministry. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the empty grate, calling out for her apartment. Casting one last look over her shoulder, she stepped through the hearth and into her parlour, tossing her shoes with a flourish and left for her bedroom.

With little thought to modesty, she stripped her dress from her person and stepped out of her knickers, dropping the lot into the hamper by the bathroom door. Technically, the dress was dry clean only – a little something she’d picked up from a Muggle boutique near her apartment – but her desire to be tidy and practical was vastly overshadowed by the prospect of a scalding shower and a pair of fleece pyjamas.

Some forty minutes later, she shuffled into her kitchen, selecting a spoon from the drying rack and the pint of ice cream from the freezer, and trudged to the sitting room, planting herself before the telly. Popping the lid off the container – plain vanilla, _again_ – Hermione dug her spoon into the soft serve and relaxed into the cushions of her couch, flicking through the channels until she found something even remotely worth watching.

Sadly, the soaps were as mind-numbingly dull as her choice in ice cream, and she found that she could no more concentrate on the airing rerun of _EastEnders_ than she could squash her growing curiosity regarding Snape’s request. In truth, it was downright bizarre that the man wanted to meet with her, not least because he’d made every effort to avoid her after he’d inadvertently knocked her up, even going as far as to leave the country when he’d learnt she’d been looking for him.

The thought made her feel as though the ache in her chest had sprung a leak, steadily drowning her beneath swelling waves of sorrow that she’d tried so hard to ignore. Setting the ice cream on the coffee table before her, she climbed to her feet and walked into her study, heading for her desk. Unlocking the compartment hidden within the top drawer, she pulled a photograph from a small box and held it up into the light, feeling her heart clench painfully.

“No,” she whispered, quickly stowing the photograph in its hiding place again and locking the drawer with a quiet snick.

It felt as though nothing would ever fill the gaping hole in her chest, and the wound continued to fester regardless of how much she tried to forget the pain of loss and push the memories into the darkness of her subconscious. However, no amount of time and effort would erase the nights she’d lain in her bed, stroking her skin and whispering stories to the small being in her belly. It would not allow her to forget the moments of wonder she’d felt as she watched the boy perform somersaults on the ultrasound monitor, nor the horror as she woke up in a puddle of cold, congealing blood.

The feelings of uncertainty and fear had been branded into her skin, and it haunted her still, a secret she’d never shared with anyone, something she carried as a milestone about her neck. It had only been an accident – something Hermione could acknowledge with hindsight – but no amount of logic or reason could clear her conscience, nor allow her peace. The various scenarios of what she could have done differently had faded with time, though were never far, lurking at the edges of her awareness. Only when she was especially vulnerable, such as this evening, would they flood her anew, a searing kind of pain that she would never vocalise to anyone.

Hugging an arm about her middle, Hermione turned off the lights to her study and fetched the ice cream slowly melting on her coffee table, placing it back in her freezer. Returning to her bedroom, she retrieved a Dreamless Sleep potion from her bedside table and gulped it down, placing the empty phial in the bin. Finally, Hermione turned down the covers and crawled into bed, burying herself beneath her duvet. Mercifully, the potion took almost no time to knock her out, and she slept soundly for the remainder of the evening, only waking with her alarm the following morning.

* * *

It took Hermione nineteen days to send an owl to Professor Snape, having been unable to muster the courage to speak with him while her emotions were still as raw as they were. She had almost been incapable of parting with her letter as well – something the hired owl took great offence with – and had it not been for the impatient shopkeeper, Hermione might’ve abandoned her efforts altogether.

As it stood, however, the letter had been promptly delivered, and the reply now sat on her kitchen table, laying there as though mocking her for not opening it immediately. Instead, she stared mutely at the address neatly printed on the off-white envelope and wondered how she’d managed to get herself into this situation again. After all the unimaginable hurt, it had been an easy decision to swear off any contact with Professor Snape, perhaps in the hope that she might spare her heart further torment. But _this_ – the letter, the unbearable unearthing of memories – went directly against that decision, and she found herself uncertain as to how to proceed.

“Just do it, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered, pulling the envelope towards her and tearing it open with trembling fingers.

_Miss Granger,_

_I now reside in Tintern, in a property granted to me by our Headmaster in his last will and testament. Meet me outside St. Mary’s Church at four on Friday, and I will escort you from there._

_SS._

“Oh, bullocks. Very well done, Hermione,” she muttered, dropping the letter to the table and getting to her feet. Having taken several days to even approach the letter, it now meant that she had less than twenty minutes to Apparate her arse across the country and finally get this meeting over with. Frankly, Hermione didn’t care how she looked or what kind of impression she’d make; she just wanted to put this anxiety-ridden mess behind her and _never_ again revisit if possible.

Sighing, she walked to the mirror hanging in her parlour and eyed her reflection with a critical gaze. As expected, her hair was a right mess, and she looked utterly haggard, her lack of sleep showing through the layers of makeup she’d applied that morning. With nothing for it, she neatened her French braid and touched up her foundation, doing the absolute bare minimum given the situation. Grimacing, she turned on her heel and Apparated from her apartment, landing outside the dilapidated church in the middle of a downpour.

“My, yes, let’s get ourselves sopping before meeting him,” she said through gritted teeth, running to the front of the church where a little breadth of roof kept the worst of the rain at bay. To Hermione’s dismay, water had already plastered her hair to her face and sluiced down her back, running into her shoes. Looking around, she realised she was alone, and she groaned aloud, erecting a shield around herself and setting about drying what she could.

After ten minutes of waiting, a dark figure popped into existence a few feet from her and strode towards her, holding his arm out towards her. “Take my hand.”

Resenting both Snape’s demeanour and the lack of greeting, Hermione had half a mind to reject his order and return to her warm and, most importantly, _dry_ apartment. After a moment of hesitation, she did as he bade if only to get out of the worsening weather. His fingers were unexpectedly warm, evidently yet unaffected by the chill spreading across the valley, and he Apparated them away, landing in a brightly lit hallway.

“Follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, the man led her down a series of corridors until they emerged in a modestly furnished sitting room, with large windows adorning each of the walls. Even in the heavy rain, the view of the valley was stunning, and Hermione wished she could boast something similar, rather than the foggy streets of London that abutted her apartment windows. She could almost imagine settling down somewhere similar, a place where she wouldn’t feel so displaced and out of touch with everything around her.

“If you’ll take a seat, please.”

After taking a moment to centre herself, she sank into the proffered chair and fiddled with the tie of her robes, wishing the man wouldn’t take so long to get to the damn point. Hermione was anything but comfortable, and being in his presence was recalling the ache to her chest, something she wanted to avoid at all costs. It was bad enough being this near to him without being able to reach out and touch him, and she doubted she could stomach more turmoil without imploding in on herself.

As though he had heard her less than charitable thoughts, Snape seated himself in his own armchair and asked, “Tea?”

“I would rather we address why you called this meeting, sir.”

Snape tilted his head infinitesimally at her tone of voice. “Very well. I have a proposition of sorts.”

“Yes, I imagined as much.”

Nodding, Snape crossed his legs, propping his ankle at the knee and sat back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. “Master Erwood has intimated that you are currently the best in your field, and I need a _skilled_ Arithmancer to review the calculations left by Eloise Laurent in one of her earliest potions journal. I believe the one found by Master Llewyn’s apprentice dates to the early fifteenth century.”

“How long would said project take?” she asked mechanically, watching the rivulets of water stream down the windowpanes, anything to keep from looking at him.

Snape shrugged. “As long as you would need, really. Both Master Erwood and I understand the difficulty that comes with translating such old formulae with accuracy.”

“Where?”

Holding out a hand, he gestured to the door off to his left. “Here, preferably. The text and any tools you may need are all in the laboratory. There is an office you may use exclusively, as well, should you desire one.”

Finally gathering the courage to ask the question that had been bothering her, she asked, “Why?”

“As I said, we need the text–”

She shook her head, looking up at him for the first time since she’d arrived. “ _No_ , Severus. Why _me_? Many competent Arithmancers are working in the Department of Mysteries that would have been better suited to this project than me. Someone without history.”

The lines around his mouth hardened. “You were requested by both Masters Erwood and Llewyn. Given that you and I have _history_ , as you put it, they believed I would be more likely to sway your opinion. The irony of the situation has not escaped me.”

“Then you know the answer is no, too, I imagine.”

Snape’s brows knit together as he stood from his chair. “This is the best opportunity for your career that might ever be afforded you, not least because of the number of grants that would be opened to you.”

He had her there, and she hated it. “Why do you care? It’s not as though you bothered yourself with my wellbeing before.”

Tightening a fist, Snape turned from her and walked to his mantel, staring angrily at the painting above it. “This is important.”

“Ah, I see,” she said in a dangerously low voice, “your son and I weren’t important.” Ignoring the perplexed expression he wore as he spun to face her, Hermione said, “If I’m going to work on this, I don’t want it to be with you.”

“My s–”

Straightening out of her chair, she stood and said, “Goodbye, Severus. Feel free to have either Masters Erwood or Llewyn get in contact with me.” Then, hurrying to the front door, she stepped out onto the front step and Apparated away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus confronts Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,
> 
> Writing was going a little faster than expected, so I'm publishing this chapter early. It's still a bit dark for the time being, but know that they'll come around.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Mistress Granger,_

_Our sincerest thanks for accepting our request to work on this project. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the work, Master Snape’s laboratory is best equipped to aid your research, and it would be imperative that you situate yourself there._

_If possible, we would appreciate weekly updates on your progress. Should you require anything else, do not hesitate to contact us._

_Kind regards,_

_Master Rhys Erwood_

Hermione crumpled the letter in her fist and tossed it across the room, watching angrily as it bounced off the adjacent wall. In a way, she was angry at herself for being so captured by the promise for grants and success in her career. Now, not only would Hermione have to be in Snape’s company for however long it took her to complete the calculations, she’d have a daily reminder of her lost dreams, and, frankly, she didn’t know how she’d cope. Perhaps enough time in Snape’s proximity might eventually afford her the closure she needed, but a part of her knew that the trauma would never entirely disappear.

Sighing, she cast a _Tempus_ charm, noting that she had little over an hour to make her way to Snape’s house. He’d thankfully owled his address to her so that she might miss the torrential downpour still hovering over Tintern. Pulling the covers from her body, she placed her wand on the bedside table and slipped out of bed, making her way to her bathroom. Hermione opened the taps of her shower and waited for the steam to billow against the glass door before she stripped and climbed in.

After about twenty minutes, she’d finally tamed the rat’s nest she’d awoken with and scrubbed clean all the miserable thoughts and trepidation she'd harboured this morning. Using a towel wrapped as a makeshift turban, she exited her bathroom and came to a stop before her cupboard, pulling the doors aside. Giving her wardrobe a cursory glance, she pulled a set of moss green robes and a pair of ballerina flats from within, donning them with hurried efficiency. Pulling her hair into a messy bun at the crown of her head, she decided to forgo any makeup, figuring that it didn’t particularly matter what she looked like so long as she could decipher Laurent’s work.

Hermione wandered into her kitchen, lost in thought. While she had insisted that she conduct this project without any interference from Snape, she knew that such a condition would be near impossible. His position on the Ministry committee represented only a fraction of the man’s career, not least because he ran a successful potions business as his primary income. No doubt Snape needed unrestricted access to his laboratory, which meant that she would be in near-constant contact with him. The thought both thrilled and unnerved her – despite her horrid demeanour last she saw him, Hermione was still very much enamoured with the man, no matter what she told herself.

Though she’d flatly deny it, the truth was that her crush had started shortly after the war’s end, when she returned to school to complete her final year. Having agreed to one more year as Head of Slytherin and resident potions master, Snape had returned, too, his plans to retire gleefully received by the student body. Hermione, however, having heard Harry’s account of what he saw in the Pensieve, had forever changed her opinion of Professor Snape, and she came to see him in a new if unsettling light.

It had been small at first, something almost imperceptible that she could stomp out as she so chose; however, before long, she’d found that her respect for the man had become something more. It was just shortly after her graduation, at one of the Order’s celebratory get-togethers, that she’d finally engaged with Snape in the manner she’d been hoping. Perhaps owing to the copious amount of scotch that Professor McGonagall had forced on them, Snape had been surprisingly forthcoming, and the pair soon found themselves in a tangle of limbs, occupying one of the spare bedrooms at Grimmauld Place.

Their error in omitting birth control from proceedings had not registered with Hermione until it was too late, and by then, Snape had moved on. Knowing the stigma and difficulty of rearing a child as a single mother in wizarding Britain, she had immediately owled the man, letting him know that she had an urgent matter to discuss with him. Maybe if she had been more direct, he would have responded; however, she’d been too frightened to put it into words, to breathe life into her fears.

With the return of each unanswered owl, Hermione steadily lost hope, eventually coming to terms with the fact that she’d be on her own. Though she’d thought about telling her family and friends, she’d felt embarrassed about the way she’d been so casually cast aside and hadn’t wanted anyone privy to her shame. Instead, she found a position within the Department of Mysteries, hoping to ascend in ranks given time, and purchased as many books regarding pregnancy and childrearing as she could afford.

As it was Ministry law that all employees, regardless of department, be able to defend themselves if they were compromised, Hermione had been assigned an instructor and taught as much defensive magic as was possible before she started her first day. Had they known, they would undoubtedly have kept her from participating, and in a way, she blamed herself for her cowardice, the reality of what could have been plaguing her endlessly. She had made it to all of nineteen weeks into her pregnancy when she’d been struck by a powerful hex during a training exercise with her soon-to-be working partner. There had been no immediate outwardly manifestation of trauma, and Hermione had subsequently avoided seeking a healer, hoping not to cause any undue concern. It was not until the wee hours of the following morning that she awoke in crippling agony, clutching at her bloody sheets. The trip to St Mungo’s had been harrowing, and Hermione had prayed to all the gods and deities alike that she might be spared the wretched heartbreak of loss. However, with no heartbeat to be found, Hermione knew that she was truly alone, and the full extent of her grief was unfathomable.

Under the guise of seeking a holiday, Hermione had taken time off work and retreated to the sanctity of her empty flat, splintering from her grief without any curious eyes to judge her. It had taken her three-and-a-half weeks to be able to pretend that she was well and had returned to work at the urging of her Departmental Head shortly thereafter. No longer tied to Snape in any capacity, her letters ceased, and she resumed a life of quiet obscurity, keeping her friends and family blissfully unaware of her ongoing torment.

“Shit!”

Dropping the pan back onto the stove, Hermione trotted to her sink and opened the tap, allowing chilled water to run over her burnt fingers. Looking up at the clock on her wall, she realised that she had a mere five minutes to appear at Snape’s house, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of buggering things up on the first day. Drying her hand on the tea towel, she snatched her wand from the kitchen table, turned off the stove, and Apparated away, landing on Snape’s doorstep.

Hermione reached out and knocked lightly, her feelings of trepidation increasing exponentially, and tapped her foot as she waited for Professor Snape to grant her entrance. It was, thankfully, not a terribly long wait, and she followed him into his home, down a series of halls, and into a room to her left.

Much as she’d anticipated, the laboratory was immaculate, boasting a seemingly endless font of ingredients along the far wall, and well-maintained equipment down the adjacent. At the centre of the room stood an extended workbench, its surface scarred by spilt potions and subsequent haphazard cleaning. Hermione imagined that Snape had taught several his apprentices in this room, keeping an imperious presence at the backs of his students, and no doubt enjoying their anxious reactions to his proximity.

“Here.”

Holding a folder out, he gestured for Hermione to follow him through a door nearby and into his office, prompting her to sit. Generously, Snape allowed her ample time to read through the material before searching through his desk and producing a tattered tome.

“This is Laurent’s journal. Erwood tells me you have a passing understanding of French?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Should you have any difficulty translating the text, Master Llewyn’s apprentice would be happy to offer you aid.” Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers over his chest and said, “You are welcome to use this office as your base of operations. Should you choose to utilise it, I will ensure that you are not disturbed by any of my students or visitors. Otherwise, you are free to make use of the study upstairs, though I imagine it would be a touch more inconvenient for your purposes.”

Reaching out for the tome, she flipped through the first couple of pages and felt herself grow giddy at the prospect of unearthing the Laurent woman’s supposed genius. It had been many a year since Hermione had been given the opportunity to pursue something of this calibre and was equally pleased that her Departmental Head had given his enthusiastic support. The only sticky wicket remained Professor Snape’s increasingly uncomfortable presence, but Hermione recognised the temporary nature of the situation and imagined herself grownup enough to suck it up and deal with it.

That was, however, until the man’s expression turned unreadable, and he murmured, “I do have a question, though, pertaining something you said the last time you were here.”

Hermione’s heart sank, and she dropped the tome to the table as though it had burnt her. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry.” Retrieving her belongings from the floor, she rose to her feet and stepped away from the office chair, hoping she still remembered the way out of the house. No sooner had she rushed towards the threshold of the room, however, than the door shut itself with a bang and lock itself authoritatively.

“What exactly do you think you are doing?” she hissed, turning to face him. “You can’t just shut people in rooms whenever you feel like it!”

Pushing up against the arms of his chair, Professor Snape rose to his feet. “When there is supposedly a prospective child involved, I believe I am more than entitled to seek answers.”

Hermione pulled her wand from the bindings on her forearm and cast several spells in the direction of the lock, feeling more than a little dismayed to note that her efforts had achieved all but nothing. “You had all the opportunity to do so three years ago, Severus, but you were so bloody preoccupied with avoiding me that you missed your chance.”

Having steadily inched in her direction as she busied herself with the lock, Snape now loomed over her. “You most certainly made no mention of a _child_ , for Merlin’s sake.”

“Ah, but my saying I had a serious concern to discuss did not warrant attention, apparently.”

Hermione could tell that she’d gotten under his skin and celebrated the fact internally despite knowing that she was acting petty. The knowledge that she’d given him even the tiniest semblance of the frustration and anger she’d experienced felt somewhat gratifying.

“I sent you numerous letters over several _months_ , Severus, and not only did you return them all without answer, but you also quit the country, too.”

Snape’s eyebrows knit together. “It may surprise you to know that my universe does not orbit you, Miss Granger. I left the United Kingdom due to an urgent matter regarding the apothecary – not some juvenile attempt to avoid running into you.”

The expression on his face was enough to make her want to stomp her foot in frustration. “Don’t try to lay the blame at my feet, Severus. I tried everything I could to reach you and tell you.”

“Yes, everything barring actually mentioning that you were with child.”

Hermione stopped struggling with the lock and turned to face him, her fury mounting. “I was scared shitless, and I didn’t know what to do, all right? You’ll forgive me for not having had the hindsight to handle the situation with your expectations in mind!”

“ _Where is my son?_ ”

No longer able to stay the well of emotion that had threatened to erupt, she shoved him away and yelled, “ _He died_! I hung onto him for four months before he left me behind as well!”

Taking no notice of the way the man froze in shock, she stumbled backwards, feeling angry, devastated tears sting her eyes as she stared at the floor. “I hadn’t told anyone I was pregnant because I was afraid of the way they’d treat me when they found out,” she recounted, wiping offensive moisture from her face. “I wasn’t ashamed of him, but I knew finding work would be especially difficult if any prospective employers knew. I used a glamour as soon as I started showing to keep up the ruse.”

Raking an agitated hand through her hair, she murmured, “There was an accident during one of the training exercises after Auror Duggins paired us off to test our duelling skills. I was hit with something unusual – I can’t recall what – but there’d been no sign that anything was wrong. I didn’t want to cause any bother, so I didn’t see the healer until I miscarried the following morning. He was dead before I’d even known to go to St Mungo’s.”

The silence that encased the room was unbearable, and it felt as though the walls were closing in on her, tightening her throat and squeezing the air from her lungs. “I have to go,” she whispered, retrieving her things from where she’d dropped them. “Please let me out.”

Surprising her, Snape stepped aside and unbolted the door, swinging it ajar. Before she could leave, he clasped her forearm in his grip and murmured, “Had I known, I wouldn’t have left you to suffer this alone.”

“But you _could_ have known,” she replied, gently freeing her arm. “I’ll admit I could have done better informing you, but it doesn’t excuse the fact that you abandoned me at a time I was most vulnerable because I was a just convenient lay for you.”

“You weren’t.”

Hermione shook her head. “You don’t have to lie for my benefit, Severus,” she muttered, stepping past him and disappearing down the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione starts her work on the Laurent journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I know what I said about a writing schedule, but we're going to pretend I never said that. I'll be without internet for the next four days, though, so we'll continue our regularly scheduled program next week! This work will be about seven chapters long, so we're almost half way now. I hope you all enjoy it!

“Harry, for gods’ sake, it’s three in the morning! I ought to skin you alive.”

The apologetic voice on the other end of the telephone line _almost_ placated her, but she’d had an especially gruelling day playing catch up at the Ministry and very much needed all the sleep she could be afforded. That Harry had seemingly forgotten the time had been understandable, endearing even given his excitement, but she found it somewhat disconcerting that his wife hadn’t intervened and set him straight.

Hermione rolled her eyes, slumping back into her bed with a sigh. “That’s fascinating, truly, but I feel like I’d be more interested in this topic if it weren’t before dawn on a Monday morning. And tell Gin she’s no longer invited to our girl’s night out if she doesn’t get you off the phone immediately. Mark my words, Harry Potter, as soon as you get back home, I’ll be offering you the same courtesy.”

Snorting at the anxious tone of voice in reply, Hermione dropped her arm over her face and half-listened to the explanation for his unusual call. The mention of a dark artefact found in a Muggle library in Bavaria suddenly piqued her attention, and she sat up slowly, clutching the phone to her face.

“That’s not possible. We have entire departments dedicated to finding those. There’s no way anyone could just have stumbled across it.”

Pulling the covers from her legs, Hermione climbed to her feet and headed for her study, illuminating the room with the lamp situated on her desk. Pulling a sheet of paper from one of the drawers, she grabbed a pen and jotted down every detail he could offer.

“I’ll talk to Master Peyton tomorrow morning. I have a direct line to his Floo for emergencies.” Hesitating for a moment, she said, “Do me a favour and don’t get yourself killed, all right? I’ll be very put out if you do, Harry. All right, then. Goodnight.”

With a weary exhalation, she returned to her bedroom and placed the telephone on its receiver, feeling more awake than she’d done all day. Realising that she’d not go back to sleep again, she walked to her chest of drawers and pulled fresh knickers, a pair of jeans, and a maroon jumper from within. Having dressed hurriedly, Hermione fished a pair of socks from the top drawer and collected her dragonhide boots from their resting place by the door.

Giving herself a cursory glance in her bathroom mirror, she tied her hair into a loose ponytail, allowing the hair to fall between her shoulder blades, and nodded once at her reflection. When she was finally ready to leave, she retrieved her wand from the bedside table and turned on her heel, Apparating directly into her office in Snape’s home.

Though they had not established a set of rules regarding when she could work from his home, she felt just a wee bit guilty that she’d chosen _now_ of all times to do so. To her credit, she’d been as quiet as magically possible and had not intruded in any other part of his house. With a little luck, the man would not eviscerate her when he found her.

Pulling Laurent’s journal towards her, Hermione opened it to the page she’d started on most recently and set to work with the preliminary translation. Once she had a vague idea what the woman had been intimating, she would begin refining her translation with the books adorning one of Snape’s bookcases in the lab. Only _then_ could she attempt to work through the calculations, and Hermione couldn’t help but blanch at the sheer scale of the work she would be undertaking.

“ _Un projet impossible, non_?” she muttered to herself, eyeing the barely discernible handwriting with apprehension.

In the end, it took Hermione over an hour to translate the first page, most of which was spent flipping through a tatty dictionary and guessing the rest. Feeling disgruntled with her progress, she dug a leaf of parchment out of her bag and grabbed the ink and quill sitting at her elbow.

_Master Llewyn,_

_The journal is almost entirely incomprehensible despite my best efforts. Your apprentice’s help in translating the work would be most appreciated._

_Kind regards,_

_Hermione Granger_

Folding the leaflet in half, Hermione transfigured an envelope from another sheet of parchment and stuffed the letter inside, writing Master Llewyn’s address on the front. With a sigh, she tossed the lot onto the desk and sat back in her seat, running a palm over her face. At that moment, Hermione would have sunk to unspeakable depths for a cuppa, and a pair of chocolate-covered biccies but imagined that her housemate would not be thrilled at her waking him at this hour. While she didn’t know terribly much about her former lover, she _did_ remember that the man slept horribly, prone to waking with even the slightest twitch on her part.

Casting a _Tempus_ charm, she wagered Snape would be up within the hour, and so dedicated herself to some of the more menial work in the meantime, something she could focus on until she could procure herself a blessed cup of tea. The job was tedious, not least because it meant painstakingly copying each algorithm onto a fresh sheet of parchment, careful not to damage any of the original material.

By the time seven o’clock rolled by, Hermione was elbows deep in parchment, her head bowed in concentration, and sporting a smudge of ink on her left cheek. She was so involved in her work that she barely noticed Snape’s arrival until he cleared his throat and startled her upright.

“Gods alive, you scared me,” she muttered, holding a hand to her breastbone. “Did I wake you?”

Snape shook his head, walking over to where she sat. “Not at all. What time did you get here?”

“Roughly three-thirty this morning,” she said disgruntledly, tearing a corner from a piece of parchment and using it as a bookmark in the journal. “Harry insisted that his work couldn’t wait until socially appropriate hours of the morning and called me at about three.” Struggling to meet his eye, she stacked her papers in a neat pile and cleared away any of the mess she’d created. “Well, I need to get a letter to Master Llewyn, so I’ll be off to the post office for a bit,” she said, grabbing the note from the desk and climbing from her seat.

“I have an owl you could use.”

Despite how difficult it was, Hermione met his gaze, fiddling with the edge of the envelope. “That’s okay, really. I need some fresh air for a bit.”

Holding out his hand, he accepted the letter after some hesitation on her part and said, “There’s tea in the kitchen.”

She perked up at that, quite pleased at the prospect of taking a break, and allowed herself a quick stretch. Leaving her office, she wound her way around the house until she tracked down the kitchen, and indeed, a fresh tea service awaited her. To her delight, as did an assortment of scones and biccies, the kind Hermione would scarf down without a second thought about her waistline.

Only once Hermione settled, a plate before her and a cuppa in hand did Snape join her, bringing with him a palpable tension that made her want to bolt from the room. Interestingly, it seemed that the man was as discomfited by her presence as she was by his, and it had the strange effect of making her relax infinitesimally. There was a sense of knowing that came about her as well, one that insisted that Snape would try to talk about their history – their son – and Hermione found herself bunching her muscles, preparing for a quick escape.

“How is your work coming along?”

That brought Hermione up short, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, not having expected small talk. “It’s not great. Madam Laurent had a nasty habit of writing in such a way that no one could read the text _and_ her French borders on archaic. Most of my translations hang on guesswork, which I imagine is not precisely what you lot had had in mind.”

“Perhaps we should have had it translated before handing the journal over to you,” he said in an apologetic tone, running a thumbnail over the patterns on the crockery.

She shook her head lightly. “It’s nice to work with something so challenging, but it is just slightly above my grade, and I’m hoping Master Llewyn’s apprentice will help fill in the gaps.”

“Hence your letter.”

Hermione took a swig of tea and set her cup down in her saucer. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was decidedly uncomfortable, creating a charged atmosphere that almost brought the hair on Hermione’s arms standing on end. She half wished that their earlier conversations would have eased some of the awkwardness of their situation, but that seemed one hope too farfetched evidently.

“Just say whatever is on your mind and get it over with already,” she murmured after a few minutes, staring down at her hands, “please.”

Snape looked up from the scone he’d been tearing apart and said, “There’s not much value in discussing my thoughts, Miss Granger.”

“ _Hermione_ ,” she insisted, picking up the crumbs she’d dropped earlier. “I’m not a monster, you know – I can appreciate that it bothers you. Despite the particulars, how you feel about all of this is important, too.”

He sighed, dropping the scone to his plate. “My opinion on the topic doesn’t much matter, not only because I left without supplying an explanation, but because I abandoned you at your most vulnerable, as you rightly accused last week.”

“An explanation?” she asked, frowning. “For what?”

Climbing from his seat, he cleared his dishes from the table and deposited them in the sink, turning to face her. “I didn’t leave because I considered you a ‘convenient lay,’ as it were, but believed myself a lecher who had taken advantage of a young, inebriated girl. Though perhaps one can’t separate the one from the other.” Snape looked away, watching the steady drizzle of rain drench the countryside from the window beside him. “I believed it in your best interest to create as much space between us as I could afford so that you might make a life for yourself with someone who would pay you better respect than I did.”

Hermione gaped at him. “ _That’s_ why you left? Are you daft?” Before he could say the clearly denigrating insult poised at his lips, she threw back, “I’d fancied you for almost a year by the time we got together, Severus! Merlin’s sakes, if you’d _said_ something, I could have set you straight!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Folding her arms over her chest, Hermione sat back in her seat and glared at him. “I hadn’t _once_ regretted our evening together, you know, not even after you buggered off for a supposedly stupid reason. If you’d actually tried talking to me about it, instead of assuming what I wanted or needed, perhaps we could have avoided this mess.” Holding up her hand, she added quickly, “Which is not to suggest that you are in any way to blame for the… b-boy.”

“Yes, I am,” he said quietly, leaning back against the counter, his hands braced against the granite countertop. “All of this could have been avoided if I’d taken you in when you intimated that you needed help.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. There’s every possibility that something else could have happened that was beyond our control. You can’t blame yourself for an accident, Severus.” Hugging her arms tightly to her chest, she asked, “What do we do now, though?”

“I believe that very much depends on you.”

“I want less of this–” she gestured between the two of them “–this awkwardness. I want to be able to have a conversation with you without feeling a sense of foreboding every time. I may even forgive you your stupidity if you don’t kick me out of your house after we’re done talking.”

Despite himself, Snape’s lips quirked, and he nodded thoughtfully, saying, “If you insist.”

* * *

“Tell me about Potter’s work.”

Hermione looked up from Laurent’s journal – painstakingly translated by Master Llewyn’s apprentice over the series of five weeks – and quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’d ever expected you to take an interest in Harry beyond imagining ways to murder him.”

Severus looked up over the top of his potions periodical and glared at her. “Call it professional curiosity before you get it in your head that I want a more meaningful relationship with the boy.”

“Harry is twenty-one, Severus,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “He’s as much a child as I am.”

His expression turned unreadable, and he raised the periodical again, saying, “Stop being so difficult.”

Snorting, Hermione pushed the journal aside and braided her fingers together, setting them on the edge of the table. “Harry’s in a joint division with the MLE and the Department of Mysteries, acting as a liaison of sorts. His department works with other governments to uncover various dark artefacts across the world and has them taken care of, so to speak. Most notably, they found several in Brisbane last week.”

“Oh?”

She nodded, sitting back in her seat, and stretched. “Both Harry and Ginny are very well-travelled now. I’m quite jealous, actually. I would have loved to travel more, but there never seemed to be a good time to go.”

Severus turned the page he’d been reading without looking up. “Where would you have gone?”

“No idea. It’s been more of a theoretical desire than anything thought out. Besides, I’m not one for travelling alone.” Pulling the journal towards her again, she grabbed a leaf of parchment and murmured, “I don’t see the point of travelling if I have no one to share the experiences with. I probably would have travelled with our son, but the point is moot, anyway.”

Shutting the periodical, Severus placed it on the table beside him and asked, “Would you have told me about him had he been born?”

“I suppose so,” she shrugged, struggling to remain unaffected, “though I might have been deterred by the thought of being ignored again.”

“I wouldn’t have ignored something of that importance, Hermione.”

She stilled, her quill hovering over the parchment, having not expected him to address her by her first name. “What would you have done?” she asked, a small quiver in her voice.

“I would have returned to Britain immediately and sought you out, I imagine.”

Reaching for her wand in her sleeve, she spelt away the blots of ink that had seeped into the sheet of parchment and said, “It doesn’t matter, though, does it?” With a tired sigh, she returned her wand to its bindings and climbed to her feet. “I need some air.”

Without waiting for his reply, Hermione left the office and headed for the sitting room, exiting out of the sliding door, and shivering from the sudden chill of the crisp November air. Thankfully, the rain had let up from earlier, and she stepped out into the garden, walking past the patches of Severus’s potions ingredients and down the trail leading to a small clearing overlooking the valley. The first time she’d walked to this spot, she’d been surprised to find a solitary bench, poised such that one had a clear line of sight to the River Wye and its neighbouring wizarding village.

Drying the edge of the seat, Hermione perched herself on the bench, ignoring the way the wind whipped tendrils of her hair about her face and tried not to let the worst of her emotions seep to the surface. Though the pair had been far more candid with one another over the last few weeks, she still had difficulty trusting herself around Severus. She wanted desperately to throw herself at him and forget their tumultuous past, to have her feelings returned and unhindered by hurt. However, some small part of her remained untrusting and unforgiving of having been abandoned by him, of having had to experience fear and loss alone because of Severus’s misguided attempts to protect her. Hermione wanted to shield herself from the potential of being hurt again, even if said possibility seemed less likely with each given day.

Surprising her, he’d even become increasingly generous and patient, something that, truthfully, unnerved her to a degree. After all the years she’d known Severus, it felt extremely odd to perceive the towering, severe professor as charitable and, at times, kind. Given any real thought, the concept seemed almost farcical. But Hermione wanted to believe that this change in character had been for her rather than something resultant of personal growth. Perhaps it was selfish of her to think along those lines, but she wanted to be important to him in the same capacity he was to her.

“Hermione.”

Casting a glance over her shoulder at Severus, she sighed and scooted over, gesturing for him to join her.

“I apologise for raising the topic again. I recognise that it’s a particularly difficult thing for you to discuss, and my curiosity should not have taken precedent.”

The man’s apologetic tone made her heart clench, and she reached out to give his hand an encouraging squeeze. The move surprised him just as much as it had done her, and they stared at their joined hands, seemingly uncertain as to how they ought to proceed.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away, “I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

With slow and deliberate movements, Severus reached out and pulled her hand from her lap, threading his fingers between hers and laying them on the bench. Feeling her heart flutter into her throat, Hermione looked up and gave him a timid smile, saying nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a night out with Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a change of plans, and I was able to access internet much earlier than I expected. Here you go!

“I feel ridiculous in this getup.”

Ginny looked up from where she’d been applying mascara in the mirror and smiled encouragingly. “You look great, Hermione. Besides, you need a night out as much as I do, so you’re going to suck it up and pretend to enjoy yourself.”

Hermione glowered at Ginny from across the room, readjusting the hem of the tightfitting dress so that it sat lower on her thighs. Though her friend meant well, the last thing she wanted to be doing on a Tuesday evening was to scout local pubs for single men. After all, she was already enamoured with one, even if Hermione wasn’t sure he returned her affections. With hindsight, she had reasoned that Severus reaching out to hold her hand had likely been more of a supportive gesture than a romantic one, and she didn’t want to get her hopes up for something that may never happen between them again.

“You’re pregnant, Gin, and _married_. It’s not like you need to secure yourself a well-to-do man with a nice face; you already have one!”

Ginny tsked and returned her makeup to her evening clutch. “Yes, but _you’re_ not. I know you’ll thank me as soon as you stop throwing a wobbly.”

“I beg your pardon,” Hermione spluttered, “I am not throwing a wobbly! I’m not even angry! I’m just–”

“–pining after someone who isn’t emotionally available to you,” Ginny agreed and came to stand before her, reaching out to put her hands on Hermione’s shoulders. “Listen, I know the signs, all right? I very clearly remember having them myself at one point, so understand that I’m just trying to help you get out of your head for a bit. Just come out with me tonight, and I swear you’ll have some fun.”

Grumbling something unintelligible under her breath, Hermione nodded with ill grace and allowed herself to be steered towards the mirror. With efficient hands, Ginny spelt Hermione’s hair into soft, flowing curls that cascaded down her back, coming to a rest at her waist.

“It’s gotten so long,” Ginny said wistfully, running her fingers through a section of the curls. “I wish my hair would look like this.”

Hermione shook her head. “No you don’t – it’s terribly high maintenance – but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.”

“Good,” her friend said with a smile. “Now get your shoes on, and let’s go. I don’t want you to waste any more time feeling sorry for yourself.”

Within a few short moments, the pair had sufficiently readied themselves, and Ginny grabbed Hermione’s hand, Apparating them to a well-hidden wizarding pub in Trafalgar Square. Acting more than a little pushy, Ginny manoeuvred the pair of them through the crowd of people and into one of the booths along the wall, flagging down a waiter.

“She’ll have a glass of Merlot, and I’ll have tonic water if you have some on hand.”

The waiter nodded with a bored expression and headed off to the direction of the bar, reciting their order to the bartender.

“What if I wasn’t in the mood for Merlot?” Hermione asked testily, leaning back in her seat, and looked about the dimly lit room.

Ginny scoffed. “When have you ever _not_ been in the mood? Honestly. Now, stop whinging and look around for anyone you might be interested in talking to. If you don’t, I’ll pick someone for you.”

“This is a waste of time,” she whispered, casting a cursory glance at the prospective partners, and hating each of them.

Leaning forward, Ginny propped her elbow on the table and rested a chin in her hand, looking at Hermione curiously. “Tell me about him.”

“What would be the point of that?”

“Well, maybe getting it out in the open might give you some perspective.”

Accepting her glass of wine from the waiter, Hermione waited until he was out of earshot before she said, “He’s intelligent, and he broods a lot.”

“My, yes, I can see why you’re so drawn to him.” Ginny rolled her eyes, sipping at her tonic water. “If that’s all there is to your unrequited love, Hermione, then I’m glad I brought you out this evening.”

Hermione fiddled with the edge of her serviette and muttered, “ _Obviously_ , that’s not it, but it feels odd to be discussing this with you. Not because it’s you, per se, but because you’d likely disapprove of my choice.”

Ginny perked up. “I know him?”

Nodding miserably, she dropped her head into her hands. “It’s Severus.”

“As in _Snape_?” Ginny shrieked, almost knocking her glass to the floor. “Have you gone barmy? You work together!”

Hermione shook her head, looking up at Ginny with pursed lips. “ _I know_ , Gin, and I’ve had a thing for him for well over three years.”

“Merlin’s sakes, Hermione, why didn’t you say something?”

Glaring, she leaned in and hissed under her breath, “Could it possibly have something to do with the way you’re reacting right now?”

“I’m sorry,” Ginny murmured, a sufficiently apologetic expression on her face, “it’s just tough to understand. I suppose I don’t see the draw of liking someone who bullied you for eight years straight.”

Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, taking a large swig of her wine. “Not quite eight – he was surprisingly tolerable in my final year. And anyway, it started after Harry had him exonerated.”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose. “I very much hope this isn’t some kind of misplaced hero worship.”

“ _No_ , Ginny! And if you absolutely _must_ know, we’ve already slept together.”

The redhead’s jaw popped open, and she stared at Hermione in silent disbelief.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure he feels the same way.”

Clearly trying to rearrange her face to look more sympathetic, Ginny asked, “Have you talked to him about it?”

“About some things,” she said with a shrug, “but not all of it.”

“So how do you know he doesn’t feel the same way if he doesn’t even know you have feelings for him?”

That brought Hermione up short, and she traced her finger along the stem of her wineglass, turning to look at the sudden influx of young witches and wizards swarming the pub. “I suppose I’m too afraid to find out.”

“Look, I don’t really understand, but it’s clear you care for him, so I’ll be a good friend and suggest you talk to him about it. The worst thing he can do is turn you down, and then Harry and I will be there to pick up the pieces if he does.”

Feeling somewhat better, Hermione picked up her wineglass and said, “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

“Is something the matter?”

Hermione looked up from the tea she cradled in her hands and winced at the bright light streaming from the window at Severus’s back. “I had far too much wine last night,” she mumbled, “and no hangover potion.”

Severus frowned at her and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a phial of orange coloured liquid. Holding it out to her, he waited until she swigged the lot before accepting the empty flask from her and tossing the container in his recycling bin.

Groaning, she said, “That feels so much better, thanks.” Feeling in better spirits, she took a sip of her tea and reached out for a lemon biccy, popping it onto her saucer. “Ginny got it in her head that she needs to find me a spouse, and it took me a minute to talk her out of it.”

The lines around Severus’s mouth hardened, and he folded his arms across his chest. “I see.”

Feeling her heart play a rapid staccato against her eardrums, she mumbled, “Severus, we need to talk.”

“I’d really we rather not,” he muttered, pushing himself away from the table and making to stand.

Before he could climb to his feet, Hermione reached out and took hold of the sleeve of his frockcoat, staying his departure. “Severus, please. It’s about us.”

Jerking his arm away, he said, “I don’t particularly–”

“I fancy you,” she blurted, interrupting what would no doubt have been an impassioned, demeaning speech. “Ginny told me to tell you because I’ve been p-pining after you for over three years, and I need to know how you’d feel about it.”

He froze, turning to look at her with a frown deeply embedded between his brows. “What?”

“Please don’t make me repeat it.”

Slowly, he lowered himself back into his seat and tilted his head infinitesimally, watching her with a look of bewilderment. “I thought she was trying to find you a partner. Did you not?”

“It’s remarkably hard to when you’ve held the torch for someone for longer than you care to admit.” Then realising how what she’d said might have struck an unfortunate chord with him, Hermione’s eyes widened, and she stammered, “Which isn’t to say that–”

He held up his hand, asking simply, “Why?”

“What?” she replied, her brows knitting together. “Why not?”

Severus snorted derisively. “In case you seem to have forgotten, I am almost twenty years your senior–” he counted off on his fingers “–I was a Death Eater for a large majority of my life, a horrible teacher to you, and I left you to fend for yourself when you got pregnant.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Sneering, he muttered, “Is that not enough? One would think it sufficiently off-putting that I’m old enough to be your father.”

Hermione mirrored his posture and folded her arms across her chest. “This may come as quite the shock to you Severus, but I don’t care. I didn’t give a toss when I slept with you the first time either.”

“I have some apprehension that you may come to regret your choices as far as I am concerned. Perhaps it would be better that we not explore whatever this–” Severus gestured at the pair of them “–is.”

Hermione couldn’t help the way her face crumpled at his answer, and she turned away, wishing she could expire where she sat.

“Hermione,” he said gently, “please understand. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

She snorted wetly, feeling the beginning of tears burn at the corners of her eyes. “What a strange way to go about it.” Pushing away from the table, she rose from her seat, determined to remove herself from the situation, and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Hermione,” he tried again, climbing to his feet, and followed after her. Reaching out, he grasped Hermione’s wrist and pulled her to a stop, turning her to face him. “Don’t misunderstand. I–”

Shaking her hand in an attempt to wrench free, she whispered, “Please don’t do this. Just–”

“Exasperating woman, _listen_!” Having gotten her undivided, wide-eyed attention, Severus pulled her towards him and tilted her chin up with the knuckle of his finger. “Your affection, though utterly bewildering, is not unwanted, Hermione,” he said quietly, studying her face.

“Then why–”

“Consider it concern for your emotional wellbeing, not least because I cannot assure that I will not hurt you again in the future.”

Casting her gaze downward, she murmured, “I know, and I’ll admit I’ve thought similar in the past. But, Severus, I don’t want to give up the opportunity to work through this with you.”

“Hermione, please think about this. I–”

As though careful not to scare him away, Hermione slowly reached up to cup his face in her hands and leaned in, brushing her lips over his in several soft passes. She pulled away infinitesimally as though unsure of her welcome and uttered a surprised grunt when Severus surged forward and met her with all the charged emotions they’d battled since they’d reunited.

Opening herself to him, she swallowed his appreciative groan and allowed the fear and apprehension of getting hurt to dissipate for the time being, banishing it to the far reaches of her mind. Her body came alive under his touch, an undercurrent of desperation in her every move, and she thrilled when he met her with equal exuberance.

Finally, as they pulled apart, Hermione’s heart thrumming against the walls of her chest, she graced him with a bright, if tentative, smile, and felt a great sense of wellbeing as he returned the gesture, a gentle lift tugging at the corners of his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus surprises Hermione with an unusual request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> My apologies for the delay - personal issues got in the way. I hope you all enjoy it.

“Come look at this,” Hermione said with awe, taking a quill and jotting a few notes on the parchment beside her. As Severus joined her side, she underlined the runes with her index finger and said, “Laurent’s really quite brilliant. She hypothesised that using Arnica in Polyjuice Potion would extend the transformation for up to a full day. Her formulae suggest that the poisonous nature of Arnica would be neutralised if the Bicorn horn were harvested during _Lughnasa_.” Looking up at his incredulous expression, she added, “This was written just a few days before her death, which could be why it was never published.”

Leaning in such that he could read her work over her shoulder, hopefully ignorant of the way her heart picked up pace, he murmured, “You’ll forgive me for thinking the power of _Lughnasa_ to be little more than a myth. I would rather we not poison whoever is brave enough to imbibe this potion.”

Snorting, Hermione read over a paragraph in her notes and crossed out a line of text. “The formulae don’t lie, Severus. Everything here is done to perfection, just like the rest of Laurent’s journal. Though, if you don’t want to experiment with it, I can always send it to Master Llewyn.”

The glare brought forth by her proposition made her purse her lips in a weak attempt to suppress her laughter. “In that case, when do you want to start?”

“I have several orders from the apothecary that require my attention first, but then I should be able to dedicate some time to this.”

“All right,” she agreed, gathering her things into a neat pile. “I’m going to start the tea. Would you like some?”

Tearing open an envelope that sat on the edge of the workbench, he said, “That would be appreciated.”

Nodding, she pushed away from the table and climbed to her feet, looking at Severus over her shoulder. She took a minute to study him, noting his lithe figure, no longer scrawny and ill from the stress of the war, and felt a sudden rush of affection towards the man.

She sighed softly, turning away.

Their intimate moment some two weeks ago had pinned itself to her psyche, playing on repeat until it resembled a worn photograph, weathered by her frequent rumination. There had been no second occurrence, a fact that led only to disappointment on her part, and at times, it felt as though she’d imagined it all. Though Severus’s demeanour towards her had indeed softened, there was no denying that he remained stoic as ever, and she felt intimidated by the thought of approaching him in similar capacity again.

Shutting the door behind her with a quiet snick, Hermione exited the potions lab and left for the kitchen, walking through the cottage in a sort of thoughtful daze. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine living here, settled in amongst Severus’s things, and felt a dull ache press against her breastbone. Swallowing thickly, she pushed away all thoughts of what might have been and retrieved the tea service from one of the shelves in the kitchen, placing it on the glass-top table.

Hermione filled the kettle about halfway and settled it on the stove, lighting the burner beneath it. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she slid onto one of the dining chairs and propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. With a steady exhale, she called her magic into her other hand and traced a finger across the glass, drawing arithmancy runes with practised ease.

“That’s really quite beautiful.”

Hermione startled bodily, just barely keeping a shriek of surprise at bay, and looked up to see Severus hovering in the doorway, eyeing her with amusement.

“Oh,” she mumbled, regarding the magic shimmering in the air before her, “thank you. It’s something Master Hastings taught me as a way of visualising the algorithms I was working with. It’s a bit like drawing with one’s magic, really.” Feeling somewhat warm as Severus bent to touch the golden web of runes she’d created, she said, “It should fade within a minute or so.”

Nodding, he fetched the kettle from the stove as it whistled and poured its contents into an awaiting teapot. “And how does one go about drawing with one’s magic?” he asked, sitting in the chair beside her.

“It’s like using your finger as a wand. You channel your magic into your hand, using your fingers as conduits, and invoke the spell, _Trahere_. It quite literally means ‘to draw.’” Reaching out, she placed two tea bags into the teapot and summoned the custard tarts from the pantry, placing them on the tray. “You could use it to do whatever you want, though it works best with arithmancy because it translates your formula into a visual model of runes. It’s a tricky bit of magic, but quite brilliant.”

Severus plucked a tart from the tray and placed it on a saucer, holding it out to her. “I would be interested to see Laurent’s work demonstrated this way if you are amenable.”

Her fondness for the man now all but brimming over, Hermione smiled softly and said, “I’d be delighted, Severus. You know, with the right formulae, you could conceivably dictate the outcome of your potions before you make them.”

Raising his eyebrow, Severus poured both of them a cup of tea and pushed hers towards her. “What kind of incentive would I have to experiment if everything were determined for me before I began?”

“That’s a fair point.”

The pair sat in silence, then, Hermione looking out the window at the first rays of sunlight peeking out behind a wall of clouds. The scene was idyllic, like something she might have read in a novel somewhere, and she found herself totally at ease in Severus’s company, a development she’d never have expected when she first started working for the man.

“Hermione,” Severus said eventually, draining his cup and banishing it to the basin, “I need to quit the country for a few days, as I have several errands that need seeing to.”

Hermione felt her mood plummet, and she fiddled with the ear of her teacup, hoping her expression had remained unaffected at the news. “Oh?”

“Yes. There is an apothecary in Munich that does exclusive business with my own, run by one cantankerous Master Schneider. There was an issue with a recent order I received, and in typical fashion, he agreed to a meeting on the sole condition that it be in person.” Sitting back in his seat, he murmured, “I thought, perhaps, you might like to join me.”

Her heartbeat took a sudden uptick against her breastbone, and she perked up, raising her gaze to meet his. “Are you sure?”

“Did you not intimate that you wished for the opportunity to travel?”

Feeling rather foolish, she mumbled, “I did.”

“Very well, then. I intend to leave within the hour, so perhaps you ought to return to your apartment and gather your things. I will meet you there when I am ready to depart.”

Altogether delighted with the turn of events, Hermione graced him with a warm smile and pushed herself to her feet. “All right. I’ll see you in a bit.”

* * *

“ _Ginny Weasley, you answer your Floo right this second!_ ” Hermione shrieked into her fireplace, sitting on all fours, and leaning into the hearth.

“Bloody hell, I am _coming_!” came the heated reply before a face popped into the grate and graced her with a frown. “If you woke up Albus after all the trouble I went through to get him down, so help me, Hermione, I will murder you and dump your body in the Thames.”

Wincing, Hermione mumbled, “I’m sorry, Gin, I really am, but Severus asked me to leave the country with him–”

“I beg your pardon–”

“–and I said yes! What do I do?”

Gaping at her, Ginny spluttered, “You’re leaving the country? _Why_? Where are you going?”

“Munich, of all places. He works with an apothecary there and thought I’d want to come along!”

“ _Do_ you?”

Hermione scrubbed a palm over her face. “Yes, I do, but I don’t know what this means!” she said hurriedly, stumbling over her words. “Either this is the most extravagant first date in living memory, or he really only thinks we’re colleagues, and I’m about to thoroughly embarrass myself. Gods, what a mess.”

“Breathe, Hermione, and _pull yourself together_. We are not going to panic, all right?” When she nodded, Ginny said, “Fantastic. Now, how long will you be gone for?”

“A few days.”

Ginny pursed her lips but kindly refrained from saying whatever had poised itself on the tip of her tongue. “Fine. Pack what you’d normally pack for a few days away, with the exception of adding something nice, because Gods forbid you turn up to a date in a pair of jeans.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at her. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Ginny replied after a bit. “Pack some of your fancy knickers. You never know if you’ll be needing them.”

Choking on her spit, Hermione coughed suddenly and shrieked, “ _Ginny_!”

“ _What_? I may not exactly understand the attraction, but you’re clearly gagging for it! All I’m saying is _come prepared_. Merlin. One would think you’re a blushing virgin by the way you’re going on about it.”

“I am _not_!”

Without warning, Harry’s head popped into the grate alongside Ginny’s, and he graced her with a lopsided smile. “Hullo.”

Plastering on her best imitation of a smile and hoping to all the gods he’d not been privy to their conversation, she replied, “Harry! It’s so good to see you!”

“Who’s the man, then, Hermione?”

“ _Not now_ ,” Ginny growled, pushing him out of the grate. “Just do as I told you and try not to overthink it. Now _go_!”

With that, the Floo call ended, and Hermione sat back on her haunches, chewing worriedly on her bottom lip. Looking around at her bedroom, she pulled her wand from its bindings and summoned her bag from the spare room, lowering it onto her bedcovers. Climbing to her feet, she walked to her closet and swung the doors aside, eyeing the hanging clothes with a look of contemplation.

“Don’t overthink it,” she murmured to herself, pulling four sets of robes and a burgundy, off-the-shoulder skater dress from within. The little dress had been a birthday present from her mother, one that Hermione had worn on only one other occasion: that mind-numbingly dull date she’d had with a Muggle boy shortly after graduation. The thought of Leonard brought a grimace to her face, the memory of his monotonous voice and tedious choice of conversation flitting through her mind.

With a swing, she threw the outfits onto her bed and stepped over to her dresser to rummage through the underwear drawer. Her mother, a woman of clear foresight, had insisted that Hermione own several nice pairs of knickers – particularly of the black and lacy variety – on the off chance that she’d find herself a partner she could stomach for longer than an hour. Up until now, said undies were squashed into the back of the drawer, never seeing the light of day unless she’d run out of knickers and needed to do the washing.

Grabbing what she needed – and what she felt she could have done without – Hermione tossed the lot alongside her robes and headed to her bathroom. After a few minutes, she returned, toiletries in hand, and dropped the lot into her bag. Finally, she grabbed a pair of tights and a nice pair of boots and packed them with the rest of her things, shrinking the bag to fit into the palm of her hand. No sooner had she stowed her luggage in her pocket than a knocking sound at the door, announcing her awaited visitor.

She met him at the door, feeling strangely out of breath, and snorted as he produced their portkey – a manky, old boot that had clearly seen better days. “Where on earth did you find that?”

“I will have you know that this is a Ministry issued portkey,” he said with a smirk, stepping past her and into her sitting room. He looked around for a minute, taking in her mismatched, hand-me-down furniture and the walls lined with books, before turning back to her. “This portkey should take us directly to the German Ministry, and we will Floo into Master Schneider’s apothecary from there. Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” she murmured, feeling for her wand before patting her pocket once.

Nodding, Severus gestured for her to join his side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her against him. Then, in a move that left Hermione feeling warm, he leant over and pressed his lips to her temple before they were tugged at the navel and jerked out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lughnasa is a gaelic festival signalling the beginning of the harvest season.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Severus spend a few days in Munich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm sorry for the long wait :(. I had writer's block for the longest time, and I just couldn't get anything onto the page. But, here you go. It's a little longer than usual, so enjoy! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, here there be lemons...

“ _Willkommen im Zaubereiministerium_ ,” a young woman greeted, holding out a pamphlet towards Hermione as they stepped into the atrium of the German Ministry of Magic. Their portkey had dumped them at the far right end of the building where greeters milled about, awaiting the vast influx of tourists. The woman – her nametag identifying her as Klara – smiled widely at Hermione’s attempt at broken German and pointed them in the direction of an informational desk. “In case you need any help.”

Hermione nodded, grinning brightly in return and thanked the woman, offering her a little wave as Severus led them through the building and towards the fireplaces. Rather unlike the British Ministry, the hearths stood large enough to admit a small group of people, allowing both Hermione and Severus to enter together. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the container latched to the wall, he dumped the lot into the hearth and called out, “ _Schneiders Apotheker, Munich_.”

After a lurch, they stepped out into a brightly lit storefront, the walls adorned by shelves of vibrantly coloured potions and ingredients alike. The pair came to a stop in front of a counter manned by a portly fellow, standing hunched over an inventory list.

“Herr Schneider.”

Looking up, the man offered the pair of them a toothy smile, one that Hermione received with a grimace, and said, “Ah, Master Snape. I see you got my note.”

Tilting his head in agreement, Severus gave him a once-over that seemed to dim his rather unctuous demeanour. “I did, indeed. Though I must wonder that you called me all this way for an error in accounting. Perhaps a letter by owl might have sufficed.”

Flapping a meaty hand, Schneider waved off Severus’s cold tone. “Bah. It was necessary. The market waits for no man, as you know.” He walked around the counter and led them to an office off to the side, holding the door open for Hermione. “And you brought a pretty girl, too. What an auspicious occasion. Through there, _shatzi_.”

Hermione cringed from the man, disgusted by the way he leered at her, and felt an immediate wave of relief as Severus stepped between the two of them and placed a hand on the small of her back. He led her to one of the armchairs before Schneider’s desk and seated himself in the one beside it, reaching out to grasp her hand in an almost possessive manner.

“To whom may I attribute the clerical error?” Severus asked, tracing a thumb over hers, a move that was not missed by Schneider’s beady, little eyes.

The man’s oily mien disappeared suddenly, and the lines in his face hardened as he regarded them. “It is not simply a ‘clerical error.’ I have some evidence to suggest that we have a shark in our midst.”

“Certainly not on my end.”

Schneider pulled a hanky from his pocket and blotted the sheen of perspiration on his brow. “No, it is in the factories. I have it on good authority that our formulae are being poached by a local business. Fairly new, though especially lucrative.”

Severus’s hold on Hermione’s hand tightened somewhat, and she gave him a concerned glance.

“Your security protocols should have prevented such an occurrence.”

“We’ll begin haemorrhaging money soon if we don’t stopper the leak,” Schneider said distractedly, not acknowledging Severus’s reply. “Support for smaller businesses is rampant here in Deutschland, Severus, and their new stock is now cheaper than ours.”

“If you cannot stamp this out, Jürgen, I will be forced to sever our association. _Figure this out_.”

Schneider muttered something under his breath before reaching into a drawer at his side and pulling out an accounting journal, handing it over to Severus. “Look at the numbers from earlier this year. Our sales are down by a full quarter.”

“Have you considered the possibility that your mole and informant are one and the same?” Severus asked after a beat, having flipped through several pages.

“Hans? Never. He’s been with us from the very beginning. I would trust him at the helm of this business when I retire.”

Severus shut the journal with a snap and handed it back to Schneider. “Fix this, or our agreement is at an end.” With that, he rose to his feet and pulled Hermione alongside him, walking to the threshold of the office.

“You cannot be serious,” Schneider spluttered, trotting behind the pair until they stood at the front door of the apothecary. “You would sink me, Severus.”

“Nevertheless,” Severus said coolly, holding the door open for Hermione and ushering her outside, “I will not have my shares at risk because of the incompetency of your security detail.”

With nary a glance behind him, Severus led her from the apothecary and down a small alleyway that joined the main road into the larger wizarding part of town. “My apologies, Hermione. I hadn’t anticipated this particular turn, nor his lecherous behaviour.”

Stepping behind him to avoid running into a harried witch and her young daughter, Hermione replied, “It’s fine, Severus. I’m more concerned about your business. Will it survive this?”

“The potions I have shared with Master Schneider are inconsequential to my own income. The vast majority of profitable potions that I sell are based in Britain.”

“So why were you so hard on him?”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “If I were to move more of my stock abroad, I would need assurances that I can trust Schneider to handle it appropriately. Clearly, he has yet to do so.”

Hermione frowned at him but allowed herself to be led down a street that headed into the centre of town. The architecture of the place, much like its Muggle counterpart, was beautifully ornate, with newer businesses interrupting the rows of older, more elaborate buildings. They passed a series of chocolatiers, bakeries, and small goods shops that had Hermione aching to step inside.

After a good ten minutes of walking, only a few words exchanged as she took in the local scenery, Severus came to a stop beside a small café, flush between an antique store and what looked to be a tailor for ceremonial robes. He held the door open for her, ushering her inside, and smirked at her delighted expression.

“I’m rather peckish after all that nonsense, so I thought we ought to stop for tea.”

Hermione grinned at him and walked up to the display case, taking a minute to peruse the spread before ordering a slice of _Bienenstich_ and a cup of fruit tea – an odd concept, though intriguing, she thought. She stood off to the side as Severus ordered a rather British alternative, and they walked to the far end of the café, seating themselves at a small table by the bay window. They watched as a steady mix of locals and tourists strolled by in various states of urgency.

“It’s so nice here already,” she said wistfully, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. “I wish I could stay here.”

“Perhaps Master Schneider would take you on as an assistant.”

She glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just about to say how nice it was to be here with you, but I may just change my mind.”

The way his features softened at her declaration had Hermione feeling altogether warm, and she appreciated the interruption of the waitress dropping off their fare. She picked up the cup of tea and sniffed it experimentally before taking a sip. “Merlin, that’s good. We should buy a few tea bags to take home with us.”

_Home_.

Hermione froze, realising what she’d said, and looked up at Severus, glad to see he’d preoccupied himself with his custard tart. Hoping to keep him unaware of her slip of the tongue, she said, “There was this bakery near where we lived when I was just a girl. It was run by this little, old German woman and her son, and they always had a fresh batch of this made every day. I’d almost forgotten about it until we got here.” Fingering her serviette as she spoke, she said, “My parents were really fond of her, and I think they all but financed that place for all they visited it.”

“You don’t talk about your parents much.”

Hermione shrugged, playing with the ear of her teacup. “My parent’s haven’t really forgiven me for altering their memories and sending them away. I understand it better now, but they felt cheated out of the opportunity to help, to protect me from the dangers we faced. I don’t think they’ve come to terms with the fact that they’d sooner have been killed than be useful.” Sighing, she added, “It’s part of the reason I didn’t tell them about our son. It felt like something else to add to the great divide, and I wasn’t really ready to take that on.”

Severus placed his teacup in its saucer and reached out to clasp her hand in his, asking, “Did you tell anyone?”

Despite herself, her lower lip quivered as she remembered just how isolated and lonely she’d been, suffering through her loss without the aid of even her closest friends. “No. I feared their reactions. Not of our time together,” she said quickly, giving Severus’s hand a squeeze, “but more so that I’d been irresponsible enough to get myself pregnant.”

“There were two people in that room, Hermione. You can’t shoulder the blame for what was equally my fault.”

She looked away, watching an older woman laugh with her companion on the other end of the shop. “What is this, Severus? I assume you didn’t just cart me across several countries to give Master Schneider a difficult time.”

Squeezing her hand once before pulling away, he murmured, “No. I was hoping that we might get to know each other better outside of the confines of work.”

“Merlin, Severus. This has to be one of the most extravagant dates I’ve ever been on,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m happy it’s with you. My dating life has been all but non-existent since we were together.”

_Shit_.

She hadn’t meant to say that, but it was like her filter disappeared when she was around him. Hermione _wanted_ to be close to him and share all manner of things with him, but she still found herself somewhat frightened to open herself up to him. If he changed his mind about her, she’d be left heartbroken a second time over, and she may never recover from such a blow.

“Likewise,” Severus replied in a soft voice, and she found that she felt better about her admission, taking some comfort in the knowledge that she wasn’t the only one spending the last few years alone. In reality, she should have felt some kind of sympathy for him – for the years he spent by himself – but she couldn’t quite muster it.

“So, what’s next? What other errands do we have?”

He hummed noncommittally. “Well, I have tickets to the _Bayerische Staatsoper_ this evening, where they’ll be performing Wagner’s Ring Cycle, but I don’t believe I consider that an errand.”

“Oh! How delightful! My mum is an encyclopaedia for operas, so I imagine she’d be horribly jealous if I told her.”

Severus looked sincerely pleased by her reaction, and he climbed from his seat, holding his hand out to her. A smile tugged at her features as he enfolded her hand with his and led them to the cashier where they bought two boxes of the fruit tea. Once done, the pair left the café and headed down the street, crossing the road a block down the way. After twisting their way around the city, Severus came to a stop beside a grand, old building, and he held the door open for her, ushering her inside.

Looking up at the painted, vaulted ceilings, and the archways resting atop marble columns, Hermione murmured, “Where exactly are we?”

“We’re in one of the oldest standing hotels in wizarding Germany, passed down along generations and dating back to the eighteenth century. Though they’ve modernised in recent years, it remains true to the original style and architecture of the time.” Taking in her awed expression, he smirked and added, “A bit gaudy, really.”

“It is _not_ ,” Hermione scoffed, smacking his arm. “It’s wonderful. But how on earth am I going to afford this, Severus? I don’t–”

“Given that I invited you as my guest, Hermione,” he interrupted, looking mildly affronted, “I have no expectations for monetary compensation. Just enjoy yourself.”

When they reached the landing of the second floor, Severus held the door open and gestured her through, motioning for her to follow him down a hallway. The wallpaper was, in truth, rather ostentatious, but Hermione couldn’t help but be swept up by the romanticism of the design and the luxurious feel of it all. It was almost as though she now starred in one of the period dramas she so loved.

“Ah, here we are,” Severus said after a beat, coming to a halt outside one of the rooms. “This is where you’ll be staying. I have the room right next door should you need me.”

Intrigued, Hermione took the key from his hand and opened the door to her suite, looking on in mild surprise at the sheer size of the space. It hadn’t occurred to her that Severus’s apothecary was so lucrative so as to afford him such niceties, so she felt oddly off-kilter taking it all in.

“Plan to be ready by about six-thirty. We’ll need to Apparate to the alley behind the building because the opera house is most decidedly Muggle.”

Smiling at him, she stepped forward to place a soft kiss on his cheek and murmured, “Thank you, Severus. I’ll see you then.”

* * *

The knock on her door sounded precisely on time, and she pulled back from the mirror, having just applied the last of her makeup.

“Coming!”

Taking one last look at herself, she bit down on the inside of her cheek and wondered how Severus would react to seeing her in her little skater dress and knee-high boots. Hopefully, it would be better than Leonard – dull man – who’d barely noticed her over the sound of his own voice. Just the thought of their ill-fated date made Hermione grimace, and she pushed all memories of the boy from her mind with a vehemence.

Hurrying to the entryway, Hermione flung open the door and was met by Severus, who’d dressed in a rather attractive black suit, with his hair looking cleaner and tidier than was usual. It was a reminder of the formal events she’d seen him attend at the Ministry, where he’d stood regal and stoic amidst a crowd of fawning young women. She’d been so jealous then, wishing he’d talk to her after all her numerous attempts at correspondence, and a part of her felt somewhat smug that she now had him to herself.

Giving him a nervous smile, Hermione greeted him with a simple, “Hello.”

The way Severus’s eyes raked over her made her flush to the roots of her hair, and Hermione wet her lips, noticing the way he narrowed in on the movement. It took only a moment, but he finally met her gaze and greeted her in return, holding his arm out for hers. Grateful for the opportunity to reach out and touch him again, Hermione accepted his offer, wrapping her wrist around the inside of his forearm and allowing him to lead her down to the lobby.

The Apparition to the alleyway was quick and uneventful, and Hermione appreciated the crisp, evening air that cooled the heat still flooding her cheeks. Hand firmly in the crook of his elbow, she followed just behind him as the pair stepped out onto the main road and walked a short distance to the steps leading to the _Staatsoper_.

The architecture itself was simply magnificent, and she found herself thoroughly spellbound by the experience, walking about the interior in an almost daze as they delivered their tickets to the ushers. Severus had gotten them box seats – _of course he had_ – and their balcony placed them far above the rest of the audience, with a direct line of sight to the stage.

When the lights dimmed, Hermione turned to give Severus a delighted smile, and she was happy to see the look of amusement on his features, as though he enjoyed each of her dramatic emotions regarding the evening. Gently, he reached out and placed a warm hand on her knee, making Hermione’s belly clench – _hard_ – her attention zeroing in on the feel of his fingers against her bare skin. She breathed out slowly, pushing away the wave of memories of their evening together – of his lips trailing over her feverish skin – and placed her hand over his, squeezing it once.

The music started shortly thereafter, the tragic tale of _Brünnhilde_ enveloping Hermione in swathes of emotion, and she furtively dabbed at the corner of her eye as the woman met her eternal punishment. Severus’s squeeze of her leg suggested that he’d not missed the motion, and she bit her lower lip, feeling a little embarrassed in response. Finally, by the end, Hermione having given the cast rousing applause, the pair stepped out into the evening air once more and returned to the Apparition point behind the opera house.

“That was wonderful,” she said wistfully, smiling brightly at Severus. “If you ignore the fact that it takes entire acts for the characters to sing themselves to death, I found that rather enjoyable.”

Severus snorted. “No doubt.”

“What about you? What did you think of it?”

Looking down on her with a lopsided smile, he took her hand in his – a move which had become surprisingly easy between the two – and said, “I find that I mirror your sentiments. Though, delightful as it was to spend the evening with you, I suspect that opera is not really to my tastes.”

“Oh?”

Nodding, he explained, “There’s too much singing.”

Hermione ground to a halt and burst into tinkling laughter, paying no attention to the passers-by who had to step around her to continue on their paths. “That has to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say, Severus.”

Smirking, he led her to the alleyway behind the building and, with little preamble, gathered her up in his arms and turned on his heel, Apparating them back to the lobby of their hotel. The walk upstairs felt much longer than before, each of her steps feeling increasingly heavy such that by the time they reached their rooms, Hermione was feeling practically morose.

It was strangely awkward to be standing beside her door as she fished her key from her purse, and it took an embarrassingly long time to steady her hand well enough to unlock the door. Severus had looked down at her in silence, his eyebrow quirked, when he asked, “Are you all right?”

_Bugger_.

Nodding, without meeting his eyes, Hermione pulled the key from her door and pressed it ajar, eyeing the empty space with a frown. “Do you–” she turned to look up at him, feeling her heart hammering against the walls of her chest “–do you want to come inside?”

His answering gaze and tilt of his head made her mouth run dry, and she stepped aside, allowing him to enter the room before her. Shutting the door, Hermione placed her purse and key on the table leading into the sitting room and watched breathlessly as Severus stalked towards her, a predatory tone to his gait. She inched backwards with each step that he took until her back touched the wood of her door, and she looked up at him, her mouth parted.

Severus looked like he wanted to devour her, something that made her entirely weak at the knees and, surprised by her own daring, Hermione launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. With quick efficiency, he hooked his hands underneath her knees and picked her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he walked the pair to their bedroom.

With a sense of urgency that took her breath away, Severus’s lips crashed down against hers, and Hermione carded her hands into his hair with a moan, pressing herself up against him. He made a low sound at the back of his throat and nipped at her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and soothing it with the tip of his tongue.

Somehow – and Hermione couldn’t remember the particulars – the pair made it to the bed unscathed and rushed to undress one another, Severus tugging her skater dress over her head with one swift pull after which she attacked the length of buttons down his front. Joining her, he threaded the remaining buttons through their respective buttonholes and shrugged out of his Oxford shirt, tossing the fabric to the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

The rest of their garments were rapidly done away with, flung in various directions of the room, all the while Severus invaded Hermione’s mouth with fervour, his tongue sliding possessively along hers. He flipped Hermione onto her back and kissed down her neck, across the exposed skin of her chest, and came to a halt over her breast, enveloping her nipple to tease it to a peak.

Hermione threw her head back, scrunching her eyes shut, and dug her nails into the man’s shoulder, leaving half-moon depressions in the skin. Goosebumps erupted over her as his breath moved lower, a soft trail over her torso and navel, hovering over the apex of her thighs.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, using his free hand to slip a finger along her folds, tracing a featherlight touch over her. “Ever since I saw you in that dress. You were very distracting, little witch.”

With that, he leaned down and traced his tongue along her, tasting her, and circled her clitoris in an agonisingly slow way that had her nails biting into his skin.

“If you’re unsure, Hermione,” he murmured, slipping a finger within her, “now would be an excellent time to stop.”

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” she growled, tightening around his exploring digit, and delighted in Severus’s groan. “If you don’t fuck me right this instant, I think I may burst.”

The man’s gaze darkened – his pupils dilating – and he lowered his face to the apex of her thighs, renewing his efforts with vigour. He sucked Hermione's clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue over her, and curled his finger within her, stroking something that had her keening and arching off of the bed. His finger and tongue were commanding, pushing her up the steep climb towards her orgasm at a spectacular rate, and she felt as though she’d spontaneously combust by his touch alone.

_Oh, god_.

She was nearly there – _so close_ – when Severus added another finger and finally pushed her over the peak, breaking her into a thousand pieces as she came. Her long, drawn-out wail broke the silence, and she shuddered against Severus’s mouth as her orgasm reached its peak, leaving her feeling entirely boneless.

Summoning his wand from the floor, Severus touched it to her abdomen and murmured a quick spell, before tossing it to the floor once more and climbing over her. Hermione reached out and cupped his face in her hands, bringing him down to kiss him desperately. She could feel him line himself up at her entrance and broke free of his lips as he plunged forward, moaning into the air.

“That’s it, Hermione,” he murmured, gently easing in and out of her, moving at an unhurried pace that had Hermione impatiently digging her heels into his backside.

“More,” she hissed through gritted teeth, throwing her head back as he obliged, pulling out and slamming back into her with growing intensity. The languid thrusts grew harder, more insistent, and he looked down at her with an expression that had her heart clench, like he could see into her very being, exposing everything that she’d locked away. It was a terrifying feeling – like she was freefalling – and she couldn’t help the way her heart picked up pace as she regarded him.

Severus leaned down and kissed her again, soothing her anxious feelings, and she could tell, by the stutter in his movements, that he was nearing the finale of his own orgasm. Hermione tightened her muscles around him and smirked as he gave a grunt in reply.

“Don’t–”

Ignoring him, she repeated her movements, reaching up to nip on his earlobe, and felt quite pleased with herself when the cords in his neck tightened, and he stilled, coming apart with a ragged groan. Arms shaking from exertion, Severus lowered himself to his forearms and rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“It’s a shame we’ve wasted so much time considering we could have been doing this instead,” she said with a smirk, laughing at Severus’s answering expression.

He moved all of his weight to one arm and with the other, reached down to pinch Hermione on the arse. “That kind of cheek won’t be allowed.”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” she said coquettishly, pecking him on the nose. “Now get off of me, sir; I have to go to the loo.”

“Are you always such a harridan, or am I just lucky?”

Looking back at him over her shoulder, having just climbed from the bed, she laughed, “You are lucky, aren’t you?”


End file.
